


The Perfect Proportion.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:11:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Charlie wishes he were a criminal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Proportion.

**Author's Note:**

> I am neither a mathematician nor an FBI agent. So, uh, yeah. Things are gonna be wrong in this.

You lean forward on the table, your chin bending at a thirty-four degree angle towards the one-way mirror. Your eyes are tracking Don as he crosses the room, swallowing it in four easy strides, and you almost flinch when he leans down on the interrogation table, Colby mirroring him exactly, so that they look like two brackets around an expression, and the suspect looks terrified, and you can't help but shift on the table, hoping that David doesn't notice your erection, because Don's facing the mirror and you can see the look on his face and it's feral and dangerous and everything, you know, that made Dad burn his draft card, but you can't help it, it turns you on

and you know it's wrong, wrong like geocentricism, but it's like Don is staring at you, giving you that look that says, _I know you did it_ and _you aren't going to get away with it_ and _tell me everything_, and now David is giving you a weird look because you're leaning so close to the glass that your breath is fogging it up and he says, "Charlie, you all right?" and you nod your head, not really hearing him, because Don's voice is coming through the speakers, and he's telling the suspect in exact detail just what charges they can bring against him as is, without his confession, and Colby's picking up the thread of the threats, worse cop to Don's bad cop, and that's David's signal to go in with the final grain of sand that causes the avalanche, and you're all alone in the observation room when Don stands up, one hand on his hip, behind his gun, and the other on the wall, and he's facing Colby and you can see the handcuffs in the pouch on his belt, just ready for Don's fingers to shift two inches and grab them, and, _oh god_, grab the suspect by his arm, slam him on the table, and hold him down by his neck as he cuffs him and reads him his rights

and you aren't listening anymore to what the suspect is saying, because he's confessing and you already _know_, because you did the math and it all checks out, and Don has that satisfied little smile on his face, the smile that says that tonight, he might be able to get some sleep, and he slaps Colby on the shoulder, says _good job_, and he looks towards the mirror and nods, and you know that Don can see you, even though he _can't_, it's mathematically impossible to see through the glass, but you feel the knot at the bottom of your stomach relax and your cock harden as Don's gaze holds one second longer than it should, then Don smiles wider and you see the shark's still there, hidden behind your brother, and you're harder than you should be, in here of all places.

And that night, with your bedroom door locked, and the blinds closed, and the lights out, and all the numbers in your head swirling around the statistical probability of Don doing _that_ to you, taking into consideration all the variables, like the chance of Don getting called in on a speeding ticket, which is a statistically possible but unlikely event, so the chance of you ever getting into a position where you would be prey to Don's predator, and the chance that you'd resist long enough for Don to get you in one of those rooms that are all windows, except for when the blinds are closed,

blinds closed, no one in the observation room, Don's breath hot and rough against your ear as he whispers, _come on, little brother, don't make me do this_

with Don's left hand gripping the table so hard his knuckles are white, and his right hand on the back of the straight-back chair, and then he pulls the chair back, and you're on the floor, Don standing above you, and your brother has never looked so tall, the all-powerful giant towering over the

the criminal before him, sullen and angry and that's when you first give in and touch your cock, biting your free fist so you don't scream and

_no one will come if you scream_, Don says, and it's casual, like he's telling you there's no more milk in the fridge, except it _isn't_ and you can hear the threat in his voice, and there's the focus in his eyes that says that you're the only thing standing between him and saving people's lives and his job is more, much more important than his little brother's dignity, _and you're going to tell me what I want to know_

and the perfect duplicity of your brother and your interrogator being one and the same and you remember what Colby told you about how far Don went to get Megan back and

in that closed off, dark room, Don's eyes glaring into yours, Don demanding to know exactly what you did, what you heard, what you saw, who you told, with one hand on yours and the other just touching your neck, just lightly touching your neck, stroking it, like there was nothing else, but you know how strong Don's fingers are, and you remember how he told you one night when you were driving home from Sibley about how it had been in Quantico and how he had learned how to kill a man with his bare hands and silently, if need be, and how he had practiced on dummies, but nothing had compared to having to do it in the field and then he hadn't said anything more, stopped in the middle of the word that had a ninety-five percent probability of being _fugitive_, and hadn't said anything more even when you'd told him your security clearance was higher than his, because he said there were some things little brothers didn't need to know

but you know them now, because you have his fingers on your neck, and he's taking his time, like he's finding the best way your snap your neck before you even know he's doing it, and he's whispering, _remember when you asked me how it felt to kill a man_, and you remember, you remember asking, and Don had told you that emotions couldn't be quantified, but you know he was wrong, this is immensely quantifiable

and you're biting down on your fist so hard you're going to break skin soon

and Don's done with threats now and he's moving away from you and making sure the blinds are pulled all the way shut, no light getting in, no screams getting out, and he turns to look at you and there's nothing of your brother in his face. It's all hard lines and sharp angles and your mind automatically works out the geometrical differences between this Don and the Don who watches hockey, but you can only get so far before he's pushing you down on the table and

_oh god_

by your throat, with his hand wrapped around your neck, pinning you down, and then other hand is ripping your pants off and

_oh god oh god oh god_

then he's telling you that he's going to get his information one way or another and he doesn't care what he has to do to you to make you talk, because you're going to talk, and you wonder what kind of interrogation training they teach at Quantico and if Don would ever _really_

and then you're coming in your hand, all thoughts gone, and when you open your eyes, you see the light blinking on your answering machine and you hit the button and Don's voice comes through,

"Hey, Chuck, can you come over? I've got some files I want you to look at."

and you slam your head back against your pillow, lick your fingers clean, and let the machine pick up the next four times he calls. Math, for once, can wait. You have other things to do.


End file.
